Thursday, November 3, 2011

The First and Second Times I Died on Purpose.

The fifth time I died, it was exploratory, and it was on purpose.

I had an inkling, from the third and fourth times I died, that something wasn't quite right with the way my body handled death. The first three times, those were all pretty, forgive the term, light ways to die. That is, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that I would have lived through them. But that fourth time. That was a heavy, uncomfortable death.

So, there I was, about to die for the fifth time in my life. I was standing on the top of the white-flaked-paint, wooden announcer's booth of the local high school. It was a full moon, and, so high up, there's always a breeze. Behind the Stadium was a forest, intentionally undeveloped land, because such stuff existed, way back in the late 1990's, and around this faux verdant dwarf woods was a fence with barbed wire on the top. Ostensibly, this fence was to keep critters and hooligans away from the school children, but fences always work both ways.

Anyhow. I must have stood on the edge of that roof for a goodly few minutes before I managed to step off. I caught the fence with my spine, which snapped and spurted on the barbed wire. I was cut mostly in half. I drooped down the two sides of the fence, and lay there. It did not hurt.

I awoke feeling refreshed, and well rested. "Holy shit!" I breathed. "I gotta try that again!"

The second time, I must've fallen and spun too many times, or something else, because the next thing I remembered was agony, and a hospital bed. I managed to break both my legs, an arm, most of my ribs and my spine, but I was still breathing. Well, I breathed, still, may be a better way to put it. I was on life support, according to medical records, for seven months before my body died and I reset.